


Do it With Style

by Liquid_Lyrium



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Bittersweet, Choking, Discorporation (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends, Heavy Angst, Hereditary Enemies to Friends, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Prompt Fill, Sad, Secret Crush, Strangulation, Swords, Temporary Character Death, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, discorporated Crowley, discorporation as intimacy, discorporation kink, smiting kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24089284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: Aziraphale's eyes widen, and he jerks the sword away from the vulnerable skin there. It feels like grief. It's the only point of contact that they’ve ever shared.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 66
Collections: Name That Author Round 3: After Dark





	1. Make it Look Good

**Author's Note:**

> Written for NTA round 3 on the GO AU discord - Prompt was "I hope this doesn't awaken anything in me". 500 word cap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well," Crowley shrugs, leaning back on his elbows like a lover. "Get to it, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a slightly different posting than usual. I've been participating in a Guess that Author challenge for the past few weeks and I'm a little behind in posting m'stuff. So this is the first of a few! This week was "after dark" so we were allowed to get ~spicy.~ This will have a few different versions of the same prompt since the stipulations are the fic has to be 500 words. What I wrote for the prompt ended up being longer and I had to edit it down. The other chapters will be an alternate edit and an extended version. I just thought it would be neat to have the different versions side-by-side!
> 
> This is what I ended up submitting.  
> Limit 500 words.  
> For the prompt/theme _I hope this doesn't awaken anything in me._
> 
> Featuring a take on discorporation as intimacy. There is temporary character death and strangulation. I'm not sure how graphic it ended up being, but I decided it didn't need the archive warning for violence. And since... death is more of an inconvenience for these two, I opted out of the Major Character Death tag as well.
> 
> anyways here's more of my Very Specific Brand of Crowley's discorporation/smiting kink and thirsting over his hereditary enemy.

It’s been fifty years since he’s seen Aziraphale. Since the angel spurned his offer to fuck off and do whatever the hell they wanted. It’s not the first time he’s seen the angel with a sword. The chokutō at his neck isn't flaming, but it's no less impressive with the angel's hand curled around the hilt.

Aziraphale stands over him, looking every inch the holy warrior. Mount Shigi tall and Eden green behind him.

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" Crowley grins up at him, enjoying the outraged flush on the angel's face. “This could be easier, you know.”

"I'm just doing my job," Aziraphale huffs. "As we _both_ ought to be doing."

"Well," Crowley shrugs, leaning back on his elbows like a lover. "Get to it, then."

Aziraphale's eyes widen, and he pulls back the tip of his sword. Pulls away from the vulnerable skin there. It feels like grief. It's the only point of contact that's ever come between them.

The angel throws the sword down and leaves.

Crowley swallows thickly. Shaking fingers reach up to touch a small red spot on his skin.

\--

"I have work to do," Crowley says decades later around a liar's tongue, something inside him dead. He means _I don't want to._ His hand is curled around a blade, black and wicked.

“I know.” The words are cold. “I won’t let you do anything to that young woman. Her child will be the next-”

“I _know._ ” Crowley can’t feel his fingers. Just the weight of the metal pulling at his shoulder. “Shame we don’t have an agreement,” his mouth pulls up in a lop-sided smile. _Could have stayed home._

"I can't help you," Aziraphale hisses, "I'm being watched." His eyes flick up. Crowley gives a perverse smile, feet moving faster than his head. Dagger abandoned. _Actually you can._

"Better make it look good then," he says, already breathless when the angel closes a hand around his throat. He undulates like an eel as he pretends to claw at the unyielding hand cutting off optional oxygen to his optional brain.

He expects Aziraphale to look away, but the angel holds his gaze with unshed tears. Like stars. As the life starts to leave his corporation Crowley decides this is the best way to die. Being held by Aziraphale, looking into his eyes as everything else grows dark.

\--

When they meet again Aziraphale approaches first. "So this... arrangement… We wouldn't have to fight anymore?"

Crowley, who has only ever been touched in anger, feels his skin shrink. He burns like a man standing on his own funeral pyre. His heart screams as it's rent in twain, a different answer leaves his mouth.

"Alright then," Aziraphale thrusts out his hand. "You have a deal."

Something electric crackles down the back of his throat. It rushes over his skin when he reaches out and presses their palms together. A contract sealed.

It feels like a grip around his throat as Aziraphale's hand squeezes his, and shakes it once.


	2. Hands Around My Throat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t think this one packed quite the same emotional punch so even tho it gutted me to get rid of the third time period I went with the other one, but here's an alternate edit that also makes Crowley's into-it-ness even starker and more clear.

It’s been fifty years since he’s seen Aziraphale. Since the angel spurned his offer to fuck off and do whatever they wanted. It’s not the first time he’s seen the angel with a sword. The chokutō at his neck isn't flaming, but it's no less impressive with the angel's hand curled around the hilt. Aziraphale stands over him, every inch the holy warrior. Mount Shigi tall and Eden green behind him.

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" Crowley grins up at him. Eyes the outraged flush on the angel's face.

"I'm just doing my job," Aziraphale huffs. "As we _both_ ought to be doing."

"Well," Crowley shrugs, leaning back on his elbows like a lover. "Better get to it, then."

Aziraphale's eyes widen, and he jerks the sword away from the vulnerable skin there. It feels like grief. It's the only point of contact that they’ve ever shared.

The angel throws the sword at his feet and leaves.

Crowley swallows thickly. Shaking fingers reach up to touch a small red spot on his skin.

\--

"This could be easier," Crowley says a century later.

"I won't be tempted, foul fiend!" Aziraphale wears the robes of a brother like armor.

"If you're cross about the monasteries, and the books therein, that wasn't my idea-"

"I should smite you!"

"Alright," Crowley holds out his arms. "What'll it be? Fire, salt, steel, or lightning?”

Parchment colored eyes flash; the angel lifts an arm, about to deliver a righteous backhand.

He’s disappointed when it turns into a fist in his tunic. A shove to his chest towards _An Bhóinn._

\--

"I need to do this job." Crowley says with a lying tongue. He means ‘ _I don’t want to.'_

“I know.” The words are cold, “But I won’t-”

“Shame we don’t have an agreement.”

"I _can't_ help you," Aziraphale hisses, "I'm being _watched_." Crowley gives a perverse smile, feet moving faster than his head. _Actually you can._

"Better make it look good then." He's already breathless when the angel closes a hand around his throat. He undulates like an eel as he pretends to claw at the unyielding hand.

Unexpectedly, the angel holds his gaze with unshed tears. _Like stars._ As the life starts to leave his corporation Crowley decides this is the best way to die. Held by Aziraphale, looking into his eyes as everything else grows dark.

\--

When they meet again Aziraphale approaches first. "So this... arrangement… We wouldn't have to fight?"

Crowley, who has only ever been touched in anger, feels something die in his chest. He burns like a man standing on his own funeral pyre. His heart screams as it's rent in twain, a different answer leaves his mouth.

"Alright," Aziraphale thrusts out his hand. "You have a deal."

Something electric crackles down the back of his throat. Rushes over his skin when he reaches out and presses his skin against the other's palm.

Crowley feels a hand around his throat as Aziraphale's hand squeezes his and shakes it once.


	3. My Last Breath is Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, who has only ever been touched in anger, feels his skin shrink around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the extended version I had to edit down from. I might spin this off into something more at some point, but for now it can live here. (Also title for this chapter comes from a lovely, lovely comment by Sk3tchID!)

It’s been fifty years since he saw the angel last. Since the angel rejected his kind offer to fuck off and do whatever the hell they wanted. This is not the first time he’s seen the angel with a sword. The chokutō at his neck isn't covered in flames, but it's no less impressive, somehow, with the angel's hand curled around the hilt.

Aziraphale stands over him, looking every inch the holy warrior. Mount Shigi tall and Eden green behind him.

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" Crowley grins up at him, enjoying the outraged flush on the angel's face.

"I'm just doing my job, the same as you," Aziraphale huffs. "As we _both_ ought to be doing."

"Well," Crowley shrugs, leaning back on his elbows like a lover, the battle around them sounding very quiet indeed. "Get to it, then."

Aziraphale's eyes widen, and he pulls back the tip of his sword so that it no longer presses into the soft, vulnerable skin beneath his chin. It inexplicably feels like a loss. It's the only point of contact that's ever come between them.

The angel throws the sword at his feet and marches away.

Crowley looks over at it, and swallows very thickly. A set of shaking fingers reach up to touch a small red spot on his skin.

\--

"This could be easier," Crowley says almost a century later, and not just because of the effort it takes to set foot in Brega. (He spares a few curses for Patrick in his thoughts.) The screams of the sacking echo around them.

"I won't be tempted by you, foul fiend!" Aziraphale wears the robes of a brother like a suit of armor.

"Look, if you're cross about the monasteries, and the books therein, that wasn't my idea-"

"I should smite you!"

"Alright," Crowley shrugs, and holds out his arms. "What'll it be? Fire and lightning? Salt and hail? Steel and ink?"

Parchment colored eyes flash in anger, and the angel lifts an arm, as if he's about to deliver a righteous backhand.

There's disappointment when it turns into a hand fisted into his tunic, fingers crushing an embroidered serpent. There's a shove against his chest that pushes him back towards _An Bhóinn,_ but he knows it could be so much worse.

Should be so much worse.

He wishes it were so much worse.

\--

"I have work to do," Crowley says decades later around a liar's tongue, something dead inside his chest. He squeezes his hand around the hilt of a wicked dagger. Too tight.

“I know.” The words are cold. “I won’t let you do anything to that young woman. Her child will be the next-”

“I _know.”_ Crowley can’t feel his fingers, just the weight of the metal pulling against the socket in his shoulder. “Shame we don’t have an agreement,” his lip pulls up in a lop-sided smile.

"I _can't_ help you," Aziraphale hisses, "I'm being _watched_." His eyes flick upwards. Crowley gives a perverse smile, feet moving faster than his head. _Actually you can._

"Better make it look good then." He's already breathless when the angel closes a hand around his throat. The motion automatic, a defensive reflex to a perceived attack. The dagger clatters to the floor. He squirms, his spine undulating like an eel as he pretends to claw at the unyielding hand cutting off oxygen to his optional brain.

He expects Aziraphale to look away, but the angel just holds his gaze. He can see unshed tears there. _Like stars._ As the life starts to leave his corporation, as he starts to feel his pulse in his fingertips Crowley decides that it's the best way to die. Being held by Aziraphale, looking into his eyes as everything else grows dark.

\--

When he sees Aziraphale next the angel fiddles with his hands. "So this... arrangement you're proposing. We wouldn't have to fight anymore?"

Crowley, who has only ever been touched in anger, feels his skin shrink around him. He burns like a man standing on his own funeral pyre. His heart screams as it's rent in two, but he swallows his grief down, and nods.

"Alright then," Aziraphale thrusts out his hand. "You have a deal."

Something electric crackles down the back of his throat. It rushes over his skin when he reaches out and presses their palms together.

There's a feeling like a hand around his throat as Aziraphale's hand squeezes his, and shakes it once.

"R-right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone pls teach this demon about negative vs positive attention *lies down quietly and cries*


End file.
